by Josie Kerr
Jason had promised not to do anything stupid, like return to the pub that night, but the more he pondered it, he and Meghan needed to clear the air. And hell, he didn’t say anything about going to the pub the next day, did he?
No, he didn’t.
Chapter 2
Meghan Sullivan waved from the doorway as the last few patrons got into their vehicles, making sure each vehicle started and everyone got safely on their way, before shutting and locking the pub’s heavy stained glass and mahogany door. She leaned her forehead and her hands against the door, feeling the solidness under her hands and reveling in the silence of the empty bar after the earlier raucous crowd. She inhaled deeply and pushed off from the door.
She gathered the few remaining glasses scattered on the various tabletops and put them in the glass racks behind the bar before covering up the leftover garnish to put in the refrigerator. She was wiping down the mahogany bar when she suddenly stopped, two hand-drawn pictures catching her attention. Both were of Meghan and her father, Sully, but the styles couldn’t have been more different, even though they were drawn by the same person. She smiled at the caricature, at her dad’s oversized forearms and at Meghan’s long, spidery eyelashes and fire-engine red lips, the only color in the drawing. Then she turned her attention to the traditional portrait. She touched the drawing, her fingers lightly trailing over the glass that protected the penciled sketch. She smiled at the picture that so perfectly captured the two of them in their usual positions at the bar.
“Oh, Da,” Meghan whispered, her voice breaking.
Sully had been gone a little over six months, and those had been the longest, loneliest months of her life. During that time, she’d put on a brave face and acted like life simply went on. And of course, it did. There were bills to be paid—Lordy, were there bills—and drinks to be poured and all of the other things that one had to do to achieve some sense of normalcy after a death, but damn, it sucked.
She stood in the middle of the pub’s fore room and looked around. So many memories. Eamon Sullivan had purchased the building with the insurance money he’d received after the death of Meghan’s mother, mostly because of the two-bedroom apartment that sat directly over the bar. When he’d inherited an antique bar from his aging uncle’s pub, things had started to fall into place.
Meghan ran her hands over the gleaming mahogany bar. She remembered the day the first portion of the bar was delivered like it was yesterday. Sully let her stay home from school for three days, and she sat at a corner booth and did her make-up work while the workmen installed the bar. Afterward, her da walked her through how to properly clean and polish the wood, a job she’d done for twenty-one years. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes.
She sank into the very booth she’d sat in all those years before, and she could practically see her father as he was then, skinny because he wasn’t eating, his shirtsleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his torso while he cast a baleful eye on the men who unceremoniously dumped the crates that contained the bar in the middle of the nearly empty room.
The chiming of the nearby church clock dragged her out of her reverie. She groaned. She had a meeting with the committee heads of a local food and beverage festival, something she’d been dreading for weeks. The fact that it was scheduled before ten added insult to injury. Who scheduled a meeting with a bar owner before noon? If she didn’t get to bed, she’d have absolutely no chance to make the impression she needed to, so she dragged herself out of the booth and headed back to the pub’s office. She’d been sleeping on the beat-up couch for the past six months, venturing upstairs only to shower and change clothes because she still couldn’t bear to spend any amount of time in the space she’d shared with her father these past twenty-odd years. She switched on a small radio for company and flopped down on the sofa. As soon as she closed her eyes, a Celine Dion song began to play.
She stifled a groan. Friggin Jason Richards and his irrational love of all things Celine Dion. When they’d first met, she thought he’d said he loved the Quebecois songstress to get in Meghan’s pants, which was so wrong as to be comical, due to the fact that she hated Celine, and most importantly, Meghan didn’t need any sort of convincing to let Jason have his way with her. In fact, she was the one who had gotten tired of his inaction and propositioned him, right in the middle of the dining room of the pub.
It had been glorious.
But that had been three years ago, and their relationship had changed. Really, it had pretty much been nonexistent since Sully’s death, though that wasn’t Jason’s fault at all. He’d been incredibly sweet after Sully’s death, especially immediately after when he’d swooped in and taken her to his house so she wouldn’t have to spend the night alone in an apartment filled with memories. And how had Meghan repaid him? By calling for a car before it was even light and then shutting him down whenever he tried to get close again.
Tonight’s encounter was a perfect example. No, she did not tolerate fighting in her pub, but she’d actually been relieved when Jason had confronted that handsy jackass. She should have at least told him thank you. But she hadn’t, and she couldn’t change what had already happened.
As Celine’s song faded out, Meghan allowed a few tears to fall. She needed to talk to Jason. He had been her closest friend and she knew in her heart he was waiting for her to let him back in. She wanted the man back in her life. She missed him, and not just the sex part, though damn, that was definitely icing on the very decadent cake. Meghan yawned and promised herself that she would call him right after her meeting, because life was too short to be a stubborn idiot.
☆☆☆
The next morning, Meghan stood in the middle of Foley’s Public House and tried to view the space with an objective eye. The mahogany bar running the length of the front room of the pub had been polished and buffed until gleaming. Meghan inhaled deeply, the scent of lemon oil soothing her, a reminder of the normalcy of everyday chores.
Nolan Harper’s large figure appeared through the swinging kitchen door. “Everything’s in the refrigerator, and the plating diagrams are hanging on the order wires above the prep station. The plates for the cold entrées are cooling in the fridge as we speak, and the warm entrées are in the oven,” he announced, wiping his hands on a white bar towel.
Meghan took another deep breath and turned her head toward Nolan. “What do you think? Honestly.”
The big chef looped his arm around her shoulders. “You’re going to knock ’em dead, lady.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He patted her back. “I have to go. You’ll let me know what they say, yeah?”
Meghan nodded. “Yeah. Thank you for everything, Nolan. For all your help.”
“It’s my pleasure, Meghan. You and your father helped me get back in the chef game. I’ll do anything I can to give you an edge.” He bent down and gave her a kiss on the temple. “Call me after they leave and give me an update.”
“Okay. Tell Bridget hi and I owe her some drinks for monopolizing your time.” She gave him a squeeze. “Thank you, Nolan,” she repeated.
Nolan gave her another squeeze and then disappeared from her side. Meghan heard the door of the pub open and shut, but she continued to stare in the direction of the bar, fixing her gaze at her reflection in the mirrored wall behind it. She looked like hell. Six months of grieving had taken their toll on her. Add in the stress of running a pub, and Meghan hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in months.
She took a deep breath and went upstairs to the apartment above the pub, the apartment she’d lived in with her father since she was thirteen. Well, except for eighteen disastrous months when she was in her late teens. She walked down the long hall, studiously ignoring the closed door of the master bedroom, and went into the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out her stash of makeup. For the first time in six months, she applied foundation, rouge, eye shadow, and mascara. When she was finished, the Meghan Sullivan who still had a living father blinked back at her. She cock
ed her head at her reflection, shrugged, and then headed into the bedroom to pick out an appropriate outfit.
After changing clothes at least four times and finally settling on what she’d had on earlier that day, Meghan laced up a pair of combat boots and snapped her father’s wristwatch onto her arm. She checked herself out in the full-length mirror and, for the first time in half a year, felt like maybe everything would work out.
“Okay, girlie. Let’s do it,” she told the woman in the mirror. The woman nodded and then turned around and walked away.
Chapter 3
Jason pressed his face against the leaded glass of the heavy pub door, peering inside. The lights were turned on over the mahogany bar and in the hallway, but he didn’t see any signs of Meghan. He banged on the door with the flat of his hand.
“Meghan! I know you’re in there!” he called, not caring if he looked like a lunatic. “Meghan! Don’t make me pull a Benjamin Braddock! Meghan Sullivan!”
The door flew open, and there stood Meghan in all her pissed-off glory. She looked like her old self: kohl-rimmed eyes blazing, scarlet lips pursed to either deliver a scorching kiss or a searing insult.
“Richards, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ll wake the whole neighborhood up! Jaysus!” Meghan stepped out of the pub door, looking around to see if there was anyone else on the street.
Jason tapped on the edge of the doorjamb. “What the hell is going on? Why isn’t the pub open?”
“Jason, I don’t have time to deal with you right now. I have a meeting with the Cabbagetown Eats committee today.” She glared at him. “Look, it’s the last hurdle for acceptance into this year’s event, and I need to be on top of my game for . . . a lot of different reasons. Give me until this afternoon and I promise we’ll talk.”
He was beyond irritated, though he really didn’t know why. “Like we talked after your father’s wake? Oh, that’s right. I woke up when I heard the car door slam. I would have brought you home whenever you wanted, you know that, but you just ran away, and we’ve never had that talk because you’ve frozen me out for the past six months.”
“Jason, I do not have time to deal with you right now. Shit. That didn’t come out like I wanted it to.” Meghan sighed, now looking more exhausted than she had earlier. “Please. We will talk. I promise.”
Jason stepped into her space. “Meghan.”
“Jason, I do not have—”
“Dammit, talk to me!”
Meghan stomped her foot. “This is exactly it, Jason Richards. You say you want to talk, but you interrupt me. You show up here after six months of nothing and still don’t listen to a word I say. You just try to horn your way inside when the pub is obviously closed, just like the pushy jackass that you are, without any consideration for me.”
“You? What the hell are you talking about?”
He saw Meghan’s jaw tighten. “That is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Jason scrubbed his hands over his face. “What? Meghan—”
“Did it ever occur to you that I need a little time to myself to completely fall apart without having a Richards or any other well-meaning person all up my ass, asking if I’m all right or if I need anything? I’ll tell you right now—no, I am not all right, and yes, I need something. I need my da back!” Meghan’s chin wobbled, despite all her fury. “I just need my da back.” Tears welled in her eyes even as she fumed at him. Jason knew he shouldn’t try to embrace her, but nevertheless, he found himself pulling her into his arms, and she let him.
“You never listen to me,” she whispered into his chest, and then she looked up at him and gave him a weak smile.
“I do, too, but only when you’re not being irrational.”
Meghan pushed him away with a snort. “You are an asshole, Jason Richards.”
“What? Telling the truth makes me an asshole? You are being irrational, Meghan. You—”
“Stop, Jason.” Meghan wiped her eyes. “Just . . . stop. You don’t get to tell me how I’m feeling, or how to grieve, or whatever other advice you’re tempted to give me because you have a dick and obviously know better than me.”
“Easy there, Sullivan. I never said—”
“Jason, just let me get through this meeting.”
“Meghan—”
“I’ll call you, Richards. I promise.”
Meghan shut the heavy door in his face and pulled down the seldom-used blinds. Jason knocked a few more times and called her name even though he knew she wouldn’t let her curiosity get the best of her. Finally, he put his back against the scarred mahogany of the door and sank down to sit on the concrete and wait her out. She said she had a meeting, so either she’d come out or someone would come to the pub.
He felt crazy. He was definitely acting a little crazy. Okay, probably more than a little crazy.
Dammit.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jason groaned when he saw who was calling but answered it anyway.
“You’re at Foley’s, aren’t you?” Ryan said without any greeting.
“Maybe.”
“She has a meeting today, an important meeting, and doesn’t need you hanging around like a creepy stalker.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because unlike you, I’ve been around these past few months and have an inkling about what the hell is going on in her life. In other words, I haven’t been a big idiot.”
“Thank you for your advice, Dr. Love—”
“No, Junior is Dr. Love. I’m just a brother who’s trying to get you to not make a bigger ass of yourself than usual.”
Jason chuckled. His brother’s husband did have a tendency to attract lovelorn advice seekers, but right now, he didn’t want to hear from either member of the happy couple. He just wanted to be there for Meghan, whether she wanted him to or not.
“Seriously, Jason, give her some space. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”
“What if she doesn’t?” Jason blurted, giving voice to the fear that had been percolating since Sully fell ill. When Ryan didn’t answer, Jason sighed and said, “Yeah, that’s about what I thought.”
“Sorry, man.” Ryan waited a few moments before asking another question. “You coming to Sunday dinner this week?”
“Yeah, I got nothing better to do.”
“You know you don’t have to try to save everyone.”
“I know, Ry. But if I can help, I’m gonna.” Jason cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ll be there.”
Jason heard Ryan sigh and then heard Junior’s voice rumble in the background. “I gotta scoot—I’m working the sparring sessions at the fight club. You should come up, blow off some steam.”
Jason craned his head around, listening hard for some sign of life within the pub. He sighed again and hauled himself to his feet. “Yeah, I might just do that. I’m only getting myself torqued up for nothing that I can do anything about by hanging around here.”
“Okay, man. See you there.”
“See ya, Ryan. And, Ry? Thanks.”
“Ain’t nothing but a thing, Big Brother,” Ryan answered, and then the line went dead.
Jason shook his head. “Ain’t nothing but a thing,” he repeated, placing his hand flat on the door and saying a little prayer before turning and jogging to his truck.
Chapter 4
Meghan glanced at the clock, then at the assembled small plates on the prep table, and back at the clock. Jason’s little intrusion had her cost her valuable time. The committee heads were due in five minutes, but who knew if they’d be on time or not. Ironically, in the first years of the pub crawl, when it had been a more casual affair, meetings had been both more spontaneous and yet more mindful of the participants’ time; after all, all the businesses were small, independent outfits that needed every bit of their owners’ attention.
But then things had changed. Developers, lured by cheap real estate, moved into the Cabbagetown area of East Atlanta and began converting the nineteenth-century factory buildings into lu
xury living spaces and high-end boutiques. The area surrounding Foley’s Public House had largely been ignored because the buildings were newer and didn’t quite have the charm of the neighborhood’s original structures.
Because Foley’s and a handful of other businesses were now the minority in the neighborhood, the Cabbagetown Eats event looked very different from what it had even two years ago. The development companies got a spot on the committee, then two spots, and then more. Now, Foley’s Public House was in danger of being excluded from the very event Eamon Sullivan so dearly loved and was instrumental in establishing.
Meghan gripped the edge of the prep table. She absolutely could not afford to fall apart right now. Half an hour, an hour? She could have a complete come-undone.
A chime alerted her that someone had entered the pub. Meghan cracked her neck, squared her shoulders, and went out to the main area of the pub.
“Sorry we’re late. The zoning meeting ran over.” Ben Atcherson popped his head around the corner of the pub’s doorway, grinning, and then stepped across the threshold, followed closely by a man whom Meghan didn’t recognize.
A bit disconcerted by the unknown visitor, Meghan tried not to let her unease show by screwing a smile on her face. “Come on in, Ben,” she said, shaking his hand before turning and introducing herself to the second man. “Welcome to Foley’s Public House. I’m Meghan Sullivan.”
“Charles Knox, but please call me ‘Chuck,’ ” the new man answered, taking her hand in an anemic handshake.
She instantly hated him.
As if sensing her distaste for the new acquaintance, Ben stepped in. “Meghan, we were all so sorry to hear about your father. Sully was a force to be reckoned with. He’ll be missed.”
Meanwhile, Charles-call-me-Chuck seemed to recognize that she’d been through some sort stressful situation, so he schooled his face into what he must have thought was an expression that communicated concern and sympathy, but actually said “I am suffering from an incredibly painful bout of gas.”